


Like a name day, like the end of the road.

by NikolayArlovskiy



Category: Anastasia (1997), Historical RPF, Russian Royalty RPF
Genre: F/F, Love/Hate, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikolayArlovskiy/pseuds/NikolayArlovskiy
Summary: They used to fight for first place in grades and teacher favor. They went head-to-head in grades, despite all their efforts, and Anastasia was mostly a favorite among adventurers and dreamers like herself.Women's gymnasium!AU.(In this AU, they are not sisters, but just have the same last name.)
Relationships: Anastasia Romanova/Olga Romanova
Kudos: 2





	Like a name day, like the end of the road.

They used to fight for first place in grades and teacher favor. They went head-to-head in grades, despite all their efforts, and Anastasia was mostly a favorite among adventurers and dreamers like herself. All reasonable classy ladies serious a visiting Professor, of course, complained Olga more.

Now the competition was for teachers dislike, and Olga had to admit that Anastasia was still the undisputed leader in this field.

The class lady (how much cramming, how much flattery, how many timely bonboniere from the best pastry shop on Nevsky went to gain her confidence) compresses her pale lips to the line, turns her flaming gaze from Olga to Anastasia. In the dead silence of the classroom, you can hear the dry click of the class lady's fingers breaking a piece of chalk.

Anastasia Nikolaevna, — she says in a sibilant voice, and in this gasp, in the chopped phrases, you can feel the effort not to break into a scream. — Get out now. Punished. Wing. No dinner.

The creak of a chair being pushed back.

The entire class breathes out unconsciously.

Of course, Anastasia chooses to go to the door along the row where Olga is sitting. Their eyes meet for a second. Anastasia's lips are holding back a smile, her steps are light, as if in a dance class, the brown hair above her forehead has again escaped from her hairstyle and bounces in time with each movement.

In the triumph of victory, Anastasia is unbearable.  
As she walks past, Olga lowers her hand, and the stiff, starched fabric of someone else's uniform skirt grazes her fingers. Olga want to squeeze them until they cramp.

— And you, Olga Nikolaevna, please go to the blackboard.– Olga turns away from the slamming classroom door. She straightens her shoulders, throws her braid back, and stands up slowly.

Olga gets her punishment in an hour, and this hour lasts like a hundred years.

Olga has learned the way to the wing, to the room of the "seriously guilty" in recent months, by heart, and it's hard not to hurry the accompanying teacher. 

Paternal exhortations have been in vain.

Olga curtsies at the door, opens it herself, and closes it behind her, not allowing anyone to accidentally look inside. Waiting for the key to be turned from the outside, waiting for the steady footsteps to die down.

The light falls in slanting blue rays from a small window above. It smells like dust.

Anastasia is lying on one of the two narrow bunks, her leg dangling down the aisle. Her hair is a mess – she is always running her fingers through them, her hands are stained with ink, and she is chewing furiously on the tip of her pen.

Olga leans back against the closed door and rolls her eyes, sighing loudly.

— Shhh, – Anastasia interrupts, not even looking up from the paper. — Quiet! The end of the stanza. Most important.

She leans abruptly over the edge of the bed, dips her quill into the inkwell on the floor as fast as ever, sits down with her leg tucked under her, raises the quill over the sheet of paper on her knee, and stops again. Biting his lip. The sun plays in the disheveled crown of her hair.

Just a mockery.

— Your album masterpieces again? – Olga says, sounding bored. Anastasia just snorts in response, angrily blows off the bangs that have fallen over her eyes; starts scribbling, then crosses them out.

Once Olga could bring Anastasia to tears of rage with just this phrase. Olga had long ago realized that nothing hurts a poet more than ridicule of his poems, and in her time she used it mercilessly. Now the hairpin has lost its venom and lost its sharpness, becoming a domestic joke.

Olga takes off her shoes heel by heel, dropping them right at the door – here she can afford to be careless – climbs on the bed next to her and puts Anastasia's dangling leg on her lap.

In fact, she likes Anastasia's poems. Olga liked them from the time when they were at war not only inside the classrooms, but also outside them. The literature teacher once said that "it is not possible for a woman to be a poet," and Olga, the most exemplary of the students, argued with him until the end of the lesson, here and there inserting freely retold but recognizable quotes from the lists that went around - just to enjoy the shock on the face of the eternal rival.

(Better than this expression is only the one with which Anastasia, arching, breaks into a scream. She can never keep that cry out at the very end, even if she tries to hold her mouth shut, and Olga thinks with a strange pleasure that if they get caught, it's because of that. Let it be because of this.  
Olga is not sorry for this.) 

— Olya, – Anastasia hisses, twitching her leg, an angry blush appearing on her cheekbones, spreading to her ears. She blushes easily.

Olga circles the bone on her stockinged ankle once more, with pressure – the wool pricks her fingers, silk stockings are considered an excess that can irreversibly spoil fragile souls-and moves her hand higher, shifting the heavy skirts that have lifted up. Here is the knee-fits in the palm of your hand, as if created for her. Oh, how Olga loves those knees! Kissing the bulging scar on her left, holding them trembling, teasing Anastasia with her tongue, touching them furtively under the communal table during meals. Olga gets to the tie of her stockings, pulls it away, moves the stocking and presses her lips to the hot, tender skin. The pen in Anastasia's hand doesn't creak for a minute.

— So should I give you more time? – Olga asks, and a shiver runs down someone else's thigh from her breath.

Anastasia responds on an exhalation with a sharp, square curse, from where only she knows them, leans back on the pillow and promises in an incorrect voice:

— When I become famous – and I will! I swear I won't dedicate a single collection to you.

The pen falls to the floor, narrowly missing the inkwell. A paper sheet plans next.

Olga licks her lips and leans closer:

— Nothing, the main thing is that I am in the poems.

And she is in them.


End file.
